The Genesis
by An Odd MrRee
Summary: In which the expected sequel is replaced with an unwanted, unexpected one.


Like headless cockroaches, what little humans remained within the crumbling town square blindly scattered upon Pit's arrival. Rickety doors slammed, shouts of _"It's an angel, an angel!"_ filled up the minute spaces of silence left from pattering rain against the parapets, and the crumbling fountain depicting some deity or another bubbled out streams from a broken water vein. Memories of cheers from too many years to count ago were nothing but the distant past. Instead, he found himself drenched in the middle of a decrepit town, alone. But not for long, as the clomping of boots against mud caught his attention. A couple of tall women, each armed with makeshift, crude weapons, approached him, eyes brimming with despair and desperation. A threat. They saw him as a threat. They circled around him, footsteps calculated, gazes never once flitting off his shivering body.

Cold. Their piercing glares matched jagged icicles, ready to impale his wings at any given moment. He swallowed hard and lifted up his hands defensively, revealing his lack of a weapon—he really did not wish to fight them. One woman paused mid-step, her dark eyes narrowing for a second, before giving a peculiar gesture towards the others. They glanced at one another, and then retracted their weapons, but their shoulders remained stiff, poised. The dark-eyed woman lifted her head, peering down at the short angel ("You really haven't grown a bit, Pit, even though you're the equivalent of a human sixteen-year-old," Palutena remarked, taking new measurements to replace his battered clothes) with an incredulous expression.

"Just what are you doing here, _angel?_ " She pulled down the portion of her headscarf to speak more clearly, as though to better convey her malice. "What good can you do _now,_ showing up too late to your own party?"

It definitely did not feel like a party. His wings still itched where scars decorated the bone and muscle. "I come on behalf of Lady Palutena," he said, lowering his head, "and offer an extension of peace. We want to help y—"

His rehearsed speech became interrupted by harsh laughter, almost hysterical. The woman wheezed, wiping the forming tears away (or rain, he could not tell which), before snorting. Her nostrils flared with her temper, voice deepening. "You want to _help_ us, little angel?" She handed off her weapon to one of her comrades before approaching him. He only blinked once before finding himself lifted off the ground, legs kicking, as she held him up by his tunic while staring him down. "At long last, you offer us _peace?_ Where were you when our people starved because the crops refused to grow, hah? Where were you when we sacrificed our elders first to survive a little longer, when we had to explain to our children that their grandparents had to go away for some time? Where were _you,_ " she roughly dropped him onto the mud and rubble of the fountain, "when my _daughter_ got split in half before my very eyes, and _nobody_ came to save her, hah?"

( _"_ _Pit,"_ Palutena said, worry laced in her voice, _"be careful,_ _the—_ _!"_

Her warning came three seconds before the blast that sent him hurdling out of the sky and into the woods, consciousness lost from shock.)

He winced, his left arm gouged by some rough-edged chunk of cement, as he looked up at her. Sadness mingled with hatred in her eyes; the perfect look of betrayal. "Your 'Lady Palutena,'" she continued, "is no 'protector of humanity' to us. Your gods, you servants—none of you did _nothing_ for us. And now that the dust is settled, now that the war is over, you decided to 'help' us? To save your own skin and reputation? Hah! We've had _enough_ of your selfishness."

The other women nodded in agreement, but remained silent in respect of what appeared to be their leader. She took a step back, reclaiming her weapon, before covering her nose with her scarf once again. "Leave," she said, muffled by the fabric and rain, "and don't neither your goddess nor you _ever_ come back. This is your only warning."

Pit sputtered, his bangs clinging to his forehead, before shaking his head. These humans would not accept them, either. Performing as Palutena's ambassador in the hopes of extending an olive branch in such wretched times for humanity seemed pointless, at this rate. With a slow nod, he stood up, smearing the mud-covered hand onto his already-dirty robes, before closing his eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

The woman snorted again, turning her back to him.

"Tell that to my daughter _,_ angel."

Before he could ask his goddess, his wings sparkled in the familiar blue tint that belonged to Palutena. She was always watching, after all, but she remained silent. He would apologize for his repeated failures, but his apologies would fall on deaf ears. Nothing would be gained from an "I'm sorry." He exhaled slowly, feeling the rush of wind against his body, and managed to scrounge up some bravery to open his eyes. The women watched him, expressions hardened like steel. Were they even human anymore? And, if they weren't, just whose fault is that?

He winced.

( _"_ _How can you two not see what I see?!"_ )

That was not his call, he supposed. He averted his gaze from the humans below, and ascended through Palutena's guidance towards the remnants of Skyworld.

The Centurions in their restoration efforts hardly paid a grunt to him upon his return, all scrambling to finish reconstructing one of the inhabited floating islands. At least a pool of water ran clean again after many years of having to filter it. His feet clomped against the stone steps, dirt-stained hands pushing at the aged, somewhat busted doors to enter the main temple's (formerly) Great Hall. The floors lost their sheen from giant chunks misplaced, and the stairs leading to Palutena's room were hazardous leaps for anyone to enter. Still, he shuffled over, biting his bottom lip, and hopped and wobbled up the remaining stairway. She would be expecting him, he thought. She always did. He pushed aside the tattered blue curtains obscuring the way, and quietly stepped inside.

Her room remained full of scattered scraps of paper for mythical spells and a variety of other similar things. She would not allow anyone to clean it for her, but it remained an embarrassing pigsty for the past several months. He stepped over a discarded book and quietly cleared his throat, standing up straight. At first, the unbearable silence stretched on between them, with Pit daring to not move an inch while Palutena stopped flipping through an old tome. Her fingertips delicately dog-eared the page before closing the book and rising. She pushed back her hair over her shoulders and turned to face him, expression unreadable.

"Lady Palutena?" he prompted with a quick bow.

She made a "hm" sound, her heels clacking as she drew closer to him. Her palm softly touched his shoulder, and, with a shake of her head, answered, "You don't need to keep being so formal all the time, Pit. It's alright to relax now."

He would never get used to the current chill that seeped into her clammy hands, nor the blotches of sickly-purple that spattered itself across different portions of her exposed skin. The paleness of her face, though, scared him the most, with her veins sticking out much too prominently for his liking. One instance, he saw a flash of _something_ burst at the seems of a vein along her neck, but she quickly hid it from him with ease.

("It's nothing.")

He never brought it up since.

"Still," he replied sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with a halfhearted laugh, "I'm sorry that I keep failing you, Lady Palutena."

She raised both of her eyebrows, lips pursed in thought for a brief moment, before bending down and scooping up some stranded pages with feigned interest. She scanned the first couple of lines, shoulders slacking some, before sighing. "You don't need to keep apologizing for something that isn't your fault. This burden is not yours to have, Pit. The people are understandably frustrated." She paused for a moment, glancing at his clothes. "The only regret I have is being unable to meet with them myself. It's unfair to you to have them take their frustrations out on an innocent party."

"You're innocent too, though, Lady Palutena!" He grimaced, unable to contain his displeasure. "They can't keep blaming you forever over something—for something you couldn't even control!"

Her expression softened for a moment, a crooked, thin smile on her lips, before waving her sagging-skinned hand dismissively. "Enough talk of that. How's your arm? Is it still working properly, or do I need to report to Dyntos of any malfunctions?"

"Lady Palutena..."

She clicked her tongue. "Well?"

Pit glanced at his arm and moved it a little before unlatching it at the shoulder joint, handing it to her with an averted gaze. She took it and, after seating herself upon the bed, closed her eyes, a blue-tinted glow emitting around her hands for inspection. He watched her for a moment before taking a seat on the floor, moving the little nub of what used to be his original arm with morbid curiosity. It still felt strange, but the pain from its removal no longer bothered him.

(Bone shards and veins and the thick stench of too much blood and globs of detached, yellowy muscle and shredded sinews and horrible, unfathomable screams tearing his voice like sandpaper right against his vocal cords—the pain too great, his arm, his _arm_ , where did it go, where did it _go_ )

"Everything is operational," Palutena announced, disrupting his thoughts. She tapped against the crudely-exposed metal, and then frowned. "I'm sorry we can't restore your arm completely back to normal, though."

"You say that each time, Lady Palutena, but you don't need to apologize for something that's not your fault."

"Using my own words against me, huh?" She chuckled tiredly, beckoning him with a wave of her hand. "Let me reattach it for you. Unless you wish to take a splash in the hot springs to clean up some. You look like you've been purposefully rolling around in the mud, little chicken."

 _Ugh,_ how he hated that nickname—sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if he really was just a reincarnated chicken by the number of times she called him that in private. But he never outright protested against it. He awkwardly managed to rise to his feet. "I'll take a quick dip in the hot springs, sure. But first, do you, uh, need anything? I know it's almost dinner soon. Do you need any help with that, because I can, like, help." He nodded too quickly, nearly making himself dizzy. "Yeah."

She tittered, covering her lips with her hand, ducking her head. "Oh, Pit. Thank you, but really, I'm fine. Just go take your bath. Dinner will be ready for you when you get out. Hope you don't mind a repeat of last night's meal."

She said that phrase every night, because essentially, because of the recent string of disasters which drained her of her vast stamina, vegetable soup was all she could manage to make. Pit used to turn his nose up at it, but learned to swallow it down for her sake. He nodded, indicating it would be just fine, before glancing towards the back door of her room. "If you don't mind me, then..."

"Go on ahead. I'll see you soon."

Pit held open the back door for her, which revealed a surprisingly-untouched corridor where the private kitchen, dining area, bath, and Pit's room branched off of. She brushed by him, trail of green hair fluttering with the constant faint wind surrounding her presence, and headed towards the kitchen. He watched after her, biting his lower lip, brow furrowing. With each passing day, she somehow appeared to be doing worse.

("It's nothing," she said, a forced smile on her face. "Don't worry too much.")

Did he really look too much into it? He let the door close with a gentle "click" before entering the small hot spring. Towels were already prepared in anticipation for his use, hanging close to the door where steam escaped. He sighed. Maybe he did worry more than necessary about her. But, who could blame him? He struggled a little in pulling off his clothes with one arm, wings catching in the fabric, until he stood naked in the steam, pausing in front of the mirror. The scars covered his chest, old battle wounds he never expected to see every day.

(" _Pit-stain!_ ")

But he did. He tore his eyes away, dipping himself into the almost-scalding water. After the battle with Hades, what he anticipated to be the battle of the century, he never expected there to be anything else that could possibly top that dire situation. Sure, sometimes a lesser god or servant caused some problems, which prompted a beat-down from Pit's own hands, but he thought, aside from those minor issues, nothing else would threaten the brink of humanity once again. He cocked his head back, sinking deeper in the water while staring at the different contortions the steam created. Everyone referred to it as "the blindside of the century," or "humanity's greatest plight."

No one other than himself and Palutena really knew what those eleven or twelve years were, however. "The ultimate betrayal." Those five years of peace seemed to be gone in nothing but a blink of an eye, only to be followed by famines of disproportionate sizes, extinctions, and a bloody war that lasted much, _much_ too long. A winter that stretched for years instead of months. He took to the front lines nearly everyday, overpowered with the Three Sacred Treasures turned to scrap-metal, and the desperate pleas of how he did not _want_ to fight his opponent fell onto deaf ears. ("There's no choice in the matter," Palutena said sadly, shaking her head. "We have to fight. It's our duty, no matter who we're up against.")

But at long last, it ended. It ended, with nothing more than a running-hug from his goddess as a "thank you" for everything he did to save the day. However, as more time passed, and with what little remained of humanity left in complete shambles for their societies, attempting to make amends with her subjects proved to be quite dicey. No one wanted their assistance. The gods made this mess in the first place, after all. Why would they want to rely on the very thing that nearly killed all of them? Pit could understand their issues, but it wasn't _Palutena's_ fault.

Nobody believed him, though. And now...

Now... He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Too much thinking made his head hurt, which was why he left it to Palutena instead. Although, she could not push it too much, lest she risked a self-inflicted injury. Last week's episode scared him—the strange blue _burst_ from her veins exploded with a _pop,_ like a firework, and she waved it off as though nothing were strange. But he knew. He knew the longer her people doubted her, the worse she would become, and it infuriated him, deep down. Trying to change someone's mind never worked, meaning there was nothing he could do to help her.

("Can the gods really die, Lady Palutena?"

"Only in two ways, Pit.")

A crash snapped him out of his train of thought, causing him to sit up abruptly. "Lady Palutena?"

No response. He heard something glass break against the floor nearby next, causing him to quickly stand, almost slipping from his urgency. "Lady Palutena?" he called again, a little louder this time, but only the sound of water sloshing around his thighs responded. He dragged himself out of the much-loved hot springs, wrapped a towel securely around his waist, and hurried into the corridor. A metal bowl laid face-down in the hall directly outside the entrance way to the kitchen. Goosebumps raised on the back of his neck, his wings fluffing up in alarm, before he found himself running towards the kitchen, looking for his goddess. "Lady Palutena!"

Some vegetables, partially mushed, covered the floor around her fallen, still body. The knife had scattered a few feet away from her, as well as puddles and glass shards of what used to be cups ("I have our names engraved on them," Pit exclaimed, standing on his tip-toes out of excitement, "so we each get one! Aren't they pretty? Yours is the green one—it reminded me of you the most!"). He stopped breathing for a moment, knees buckling as an immediate dread seized his innards, making them churn viciously. Panic made him stumble forward, his lone arm rolling her off her stomach. Her skin felt colder than the ice cubes in the freezer. Those sickly-colored spots, unnatural and grotesque (unlike the sun spots that adorned her flesh), grew larger.

"H-hey!" He shook her shoulder harder the stronger his anxieties became, panicking when all she could muster in response was a faint moan. "What happened? What's wrong?! Lady Palutena!"

Nothing. Her head lolled, tilted back too far from being limp. He took in a shaky breath, looking at his surroundings for anything that could help, and put her down to grab a glass of water. He brought it to her lips, but she drank none of it, letting the liquid dribble down her chin and neck. His hands quivered, uncertain of what to do. He was her _captain,_ her _second-in-command,_ meaning that whatever happened to her was _his_ responsibility. Meaning that the one he needed to turn to for what he should do in this instance was _himself._ Grimacing, he placed the glass down and, with some difficulty, hefted his goddess over his good shoulder. Her weight surprised him, as though he carried a literal ton of rocks. His legs wobbled, each labored step feeling like an eternity, as he walked her back to her bedroom. It was a start—get her comfortable, then figure out what to do.

With an "oof," he dropped her onto the mattress, and then scrambled to strap on his cold, metal arm back into place. After a quick "click," the magic imbued within the wires synchronized with his person. He then properly laid her out, pulling up the comforter to preserve what little warmth she had left. Something thick bubbled in his throat, stinging at his eyes, but he forced himself to swallow it down, burying into the pits of his stomach. What could he do? The burn grew worse in the back of his mouth, threatening to escape. What could he _do?_ He clenched his teeth, breathing hitching whenever she let out a faint, hoarse sound.

He slumped. Fell to his knees, buried his face into the side of the bed, wings spreading out and wrapping around the edges of the mattress, an overdue, shuddering sob accompanying his bout of childishness.

 _Nothing,_ his mind answered, and all he could feel in that moment was overwhelming despair.

Palutena remained out-cold for three days, her bowl of vegetable soup untouched.

The Centurions began to ask Pit questions—usually, the goddess performed a check-up on all of them, asking if they needed anything and the like. He evaded them, saying she was busy, something came up, and that she would meet with them as soon as she can, just be _patient._ Patience was a virtue, as Palutena was ever-so-keen on reminding him whenever they made ice cream from scratch back in the simpler days. They just had to _wait._ Everything would be fine. Palutena would wake up, and he would take care of her, or she would come up with some sort of solution to her bizarre ailment and make him fetch the ingredients needed. Yet, as every night came to a close with him seated at her bed-side, knees drawn into his chest, his fears became more entrenched in his cheerful facade.

How long could he pretend that Palutena was fine? If he told the Centurions, they, too, would be in a panic, and would demand an answer for what to do to help her. He pulled at his hair, nails catching some skin along the back of his neck, while wracking his brains for solutions. None of the other gods cared enough to help him. No human cared for them, either. In this instance, he had to come up with some plan, which was usually _her_ jurisdiction.

But without her assistance, Pit couldn't do _anything._ He did not know how to change the destination of the doors, and even if he could, no one could give him the Power of Flight. He was grounded, tethered to the floating island, shackled in his inability to help the one person he cared about above all else. After everything she did for him, all he could repay her with was a glass of cold water and a repeated mantra of "please wake up, _please_ wake up, _please."_

The fourth dawn came with a blood-colored sun and a sleepless night. He rocked back and forth, sniffling, prayers to no one muffled by his lips pressed against his cold arm. Palutena still did not move; her skin, in fact, began to shed in some places, despite her still breathing. He needed a miracle, some sort of elixir of the gods that could save the gods themselves. None would come. No matter how long he waited, no answer would present itself. Why did he bother with begging to some unseen force? It wouldn't make a bit of difference, anyhow. Palutena would... She will...

"Now, now. This is _not_ the sort of behavior I'd expect from a hero! Why, you keep that up, and you'll be demoted to side-kick! Or, worse yet," said a voice from behind that made Pit's shoulders lift in surprise and dread, "written out of the script _completely._ We wouldn't want that, would we," a clawed hand curled itself around Pit's bare shoulder, elongated nails scratching at his skin, "dear little Pitty-Pat?"

He jerked, chair tumbling to the ground as he stood, whirling to face the intruder. His heart pounded in his chest, eyes widening upon seeing the tall figure standing in Palutena's very own room. "You," he managed to whisper, fingers instinctively reaching for a weapon unprepared for such an unanticipated occasion. "What—how are you—but we killed you—what are _you_ doing here? I thought—"

"Oh, spare me the theatrics. Surely you must have known a little blast from those accursed _toys_ of yours would only subdue me?" The man stepped forward, his freakishly multi-colored hair catching in the morning light. "It took me _quite_ some time, but I've been awaiting a dramatic entrance for awhile now—with a bang and a boom, dear ol' Uncle Hades would reappear, bigger and badder than ever! Not even _you_ would have been able to stop me. Oh, how I looked forward to the day." He frowned. "Or, at least, that's how it was _supposed_ to go. The long-awaited sequel, never to see the light of day. Such a tragedy, isn't it?"

"What do you _want?"_ Crap, Pit left his bow elsewhere, and he had no other means to defend himself. Sure, hand-to-hand combat was always a valid option, but this was _Hades,_ not some lesser Underworld Army cretin. Plus, he couldn't just leave the room to go get it—who knew what the monster would do to Palutena if left alone? His wings grew larger on instinct, standing in front of the bed as some meager shield for his charge. Hades blinked, pursed his lips, and laughed, complete with a smack to his own forehead.

"Look at you, look at _you!_ Oh, so _darling_ in your display of bravery, all to protect the one family member and friend you have! Or should I call her your _mother,_ hm?" He shook his head. "Please, if I were here to destroy you, I would have done it the moment I arrived. As much as I am on to flaunt and boast, I _do_ hate to leave a job... _unfinished._ " He chuckled darkly. "But, sadly, that battle is for another time. Poor pretty Palutena is, after all, out of commission."

"If you're only here to pick on us, then just go home, Hades. I'm really not in the mood."

" _Everyone_ is in the mood for me. I'm just the perfect little 'pick-me-up' for when a sad little angel is down! You should be _much_ more grateful that I decided to be _nice_ enough to help you."

This time, it was Pit's turn to laugh—sharp, bitter. " _You?_ Help _me?_ What, did your brain mess up when you were fixing yourself or something?"

"You _really_ need to work on those pitiful comeback of yours, but, one mess at a time. Speaking of messes, how does your darling goddess live in such filth? Even _I_ have standards." He wrinkled up his nose in disgust before waving his hand dismissively. "Yes, I'm here to _help_ you. Even a villain is better than _no one,_ right? It's not like you have anyone _else_ around to lean on. And it's not as though I am doing this out of the goodness of my heart, no no. Trust me, Pitty-Pat." He glanced at Palutena. "If you want _any_ chance of saving her, you're going to have to rely on _me_ for the foreseeable future. If you refuse—well. I'll just be in the Underworld, sipping on my soul frappe, saying 'I told you so.' Understood?"

"Loud and clear." Pit looked over his shoulder at Palutena. Hades was right—he had no one else to help, and while he detested everything Hades has ever done, it's not like he had any plan B's. He folded his arms across his chest defensively, wings lowering some. "What's in it for you?"

"Oh, thank _goodness._ " Hades chuckled. "I thought your chronic hero syndrome would kick in and reject me on principle, but I'm glad you're at least _considering_ it. Now, then." He stepped over some of the junk littering the floor and walked to the window, where only a slit of the outside world could be seen between the lavender drapes. "Call it a... _mutual_ benefit, if you will. See, Pitty-Pat, as much as I _wish_ it were to be the case, it's not just your precious Palutena who has fallen ill."

Hades paused. Pit blinked. "...What do you mean?"

"I mean that _every_ god—lesser, demi, and all-powerful, OP and probably ought be banned for sake of fairness gods, such as myself—is growing weak at a rapid rate. Far and wide, all of them are getting worse at different rates, and some have even _died._ This, of course, includes myself." He sniffed, dramatically slapping the back of his hand against his forehead. "Even someone as spectacular as _myself_ is doomed to suffer through such hardship! Regardless." He placed his hands behind himself, clasping them together as he continued to gaze out the window. "Humanity has lost faith in all gods, and the higher-ups don't seem to care too much—they aren't as prolific in their efforts to rebuild reputation quite like _you_ are. But," he tilted his head to the side, drawing in a deep breath, "there is also something else that... worries me."

"You? Worried? Is that a first for you?"

"Dear me, you've gotten quite the tongue in these past thirty-five or so years, haven't you?"

Pit frowned. "It's not like I'm just going to offer you a cup of tea, Hades. Sworn enemies? Did you forget that?"

"No, no I haven't. But, dear Pit, for right now? You're going to have to do the _unthinkable_ and _trust_ me." He glanced over his shoulder. "If you work with me for now, not only will I save Palutena from her currently-inevitable death, but I will even give you a _respite_ year to recover properly before my _actual_ return. However, that also means you _cannot_ kill me during that year. And if you try, well." He laughed. "You will have to see the consequences for yourself. Do we have a deal?"

"What makes you think I'd agree to something like that?!"

"Because, _boy,_ I'm the only one you've got to help fight against... _them._ "

Against humans? Or did Hades mean against the sickness of the gods itself? He clenched his jaw, hands balling into fists, while taking another heartbroken look at Palutena. At this rate, Hades was right—she would die. Pit has no idea how to stop it. But to ally with the enemy? Could he ever look Palutena in the eye after that? He squeezed his eyes shut. If only she could tell him what to do! Siding with Hades felt like a fate worse than... well, death. But at the same time... He shifted his weight from one leg to the other in contemplation.

What else could he do?

"Fine," he spat out with gritted teeth, "but so help me, if you lay _one_ finger on her head..."

"Oh, calm down, Mr. Overprotective. I want _nothing_ with her. Relax. Besides, you should be excited now. Not only are you going to potentially save the day once again by taking to the skies, things are going to get much more..." He opened the curtains wide, letting what little sunlight in. "... _interesting,_ to say the very least."

"Meaning?"

Hades rapped a knuckle against glass with a small humming sound before turning around, eyebrows raised in amusement. "It's just a feeling I have. Well then. Shall we ditch this garbage dump and go someplace more fabulous, or will standing around like a sitting duck amongst the sick make you feel any more productive with what little time we have?"

Pit frowned. "Now _you're_ the one being dramatic."

"The difference between you and I, Pit, is I happen to have a _degree_ in theater. Ready?"

His brow furrowed. He would _never_ be ready. "As I'll ever be."

"Good. To the door of many destinations then, Pitty! Leave her—I'll have _someone_ stand watch over your goddess."

Hades brushed him by, making a few "ew" comments as paper crinkled beneath his feet. Pit's nails dug into his own palm, nerves even worse than ever before. Did he make the right call? Was there any other call he _could_ do? He glanced at the window, licking his lips. Well, it's not like he could step down now—not with the possibility of saving Palutena. He just had to trust himself on this one. He _will_ save her again, no matter what.

In the distance, a trail of what seemed to be a shooting star streaked across the morning sky.


End file.
